PR 6025 
.038 L3 
1905a 
I Copy 1 



THE LAND 



A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 



BY 



Padraig Colum. 



NEW YORK, 

1905. 



One Hundred Copies of 
this Play have been Printed 
of which this is 4^_ 



THE LAND. 



A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 



BY 



Padraig Colum. 



NEW YORK, 

1905. 



> 1 3 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
[wu Copies rtuceiveu 

.. JUN C 1905 

f Oopyngiii tiiiry 

£7 feoT^ B. 



Copyright, 1905, 
BY Padraig Colum. 



THE LAND. 



THE LANDS 



A Play in Three Acts. 

Characters : 

MuRTAGH CosGAR,, a farmer. 
Matt, his son. 
SalijY, his daughter. 
Martin Douras, a farraer. 
CoRNEiLus, his son. 
ElLLEN, his daughter. 
A group of men. 
A group of girls. 

The scene is laid in the Irish Midlands, present 
time. 

The action is contemporary with the stage-pre- 
sentation. 



THE FIRST ACT. 

The interior of Murtagh Cosgar's. It is a large flagged 
kitchen. The entrance is at back right. The half-door is 
closed. There is a room-door a pace below the entrance, and 
below that a harness-rack. The fire-place occupies nearly the 
whole of the left. Another room-door above it. The dresser 
is at back, and a little window to the left of it. There is a 
bench outside and a corner of it can be seen when the half- 
door is open. 

It is the afternoon of a May day. Sally Cosgar is kneel- 
ing near the entrance chopping up cabbage leaves with a kit- 
chen knife. She is a girl of twenty-five, dark, heavily-built, 
with the expression of a half-awakened creature. She is 
coarsely dressed, and has a sacking apron. She is quick at 
work and rapid and impetuous in speech. She is talking to 
herself. 

SAIjLY— 0, you may go on grunting, yourself 
and your litter, it won 't put me a bit past my own 
time. You ouP black baste, sure I'm slaving to 
you all tlie Spring. We '11 be gettiag rid of your- 
self and your litter soon enough, and may the divil 
get you when we lose you, 

(Corneilus comes to the door. He is a tall 
young mian with a slight stoop. His manners are 
solemn and his expression somewhat vacant.) 

CORN. — Good morrow, Sally. May you have 
the good of the day! (he enters). 

SALLY — (impetuously.) Ah, God reward you, 
Cornelius Douras, for coming in. I'm that busy 
keeping food to a sow and a litter of pigs that I 
couldn't get beyond the gate to see anyone. 

CORN. — (solemnly.) You're a good girl, Sally. 



6 



You're not like some I know. There are girls in 
this parish who never put hands to a thing till 
evening, when the boys do be coming in. Then 
they begin to stir themselves the way they'll be 
thought busy and good about a house. 

SALLY — (pleased, and beginning to chop 
again with renewed energy). 0, it's true indeed 
for you, Cornelius. There are girls that be deck- 
ing themselves and sporting themselves all day. 

CORN. — I may say that I came over to your 
father's, Murtagh Cosgar's, house, this morning, 
thinking to meet the men. 

SALLY — ^Wliat men, Corneilus Douras? 

CORN. — Them that are going to meet the land- 
lord's people with an offer for the land. We're 
not buying ourselves, unfortunately, but this is a 
great day — the day of the redemption my father 
calls it — and I'd like to have some hand in the 
work, if it was only to say a few words to the men. 

SALLY — It's a wonder, Martin, your father, 
isn't on the one errand with you. 

CORN. — We came out together, but the priest 
stopped father and me on the road. Father Bart- 
ley wanted his advice I suppose. Ah, it's a pity 
the men won't have someone like my father with 
them ! He was in gaol for the cause. Besides 
he's a well-discoursed man, and a reading man, 



and, moreover, a man with a classical knowledge 
of English, Latin and the Hibernian vernacular. 

(Martin Douras enters. He is a man of about 
sixty with a refined, scholarly look. His manner 
is subdued and nervous. He has a stoop and is 
clean shaven.) 

CORN. — I was just telling Sally here what a 
great day it is, father. 

MAE;. — Ay, it's a great day, no matter what our 
own troubles may be. I should be going home 
again. 

(He takes a newspaper out of his pocket and 
leaves it on the table.) 

CORN.— Wait for the men, father. 

MAR. — Maybe they'll be here soon. Is Mur- 
tagh in, Sally? 

(Corn, takes the paper up and begins to read it.) 

SALLY. — He's down at the bottoms, Martin. 

MAR. — He's going to Arv^ach fair, maybe. 

SALLY.— He is in troth. 

MAR.— I'll be asking him for a lift. He'll be 
going to the fair when he com'es back from the 
lawj^er's, I suppose? 

SALLY. — Ay, he'll be going to-night. (She 
gathers the chopped cabbage into her apron and 
goes to the door. 



8 



SALLY.— 

(Corn, puts down the paper and goes to the 
door. Sally goes out.) 

MAR. — Cornelius ! 
(Corn, goes up to Martin.) 

SALLY. — (outside) Cornelius, give me a hand 
with this. 

CORN. — (turns again.) 

MAR. — Cornelius, I want to speak to you. 
(Corn, goes down to him). 

MAR. — There is something on my mind, Cor- 
nelius. 

CORN.— What is it, father? 

MAR. — It's about our Ellen. Father Bartley 
gave me news for her. '*I've heard of a school 
that'll suit Ellen," says he. ''It's in the County 
Leitrim. ' ' 

CORN.— If it was in Dublin itself Ellen is qual- 
ified to take it on. And won't it be grand to have 
one of our family teaching in a school I 

MAR. — (with a sigh) I wouldn't stand in her 
way, Cornelius, I wouldn't stand in her way. But 
won't it be a poor thing for an old man like me to 
have no one to discourse with in the long even- 



. 9 

ingsl For when I'm talking with you, Corneilus, 
I feel like a boy who lends back all the miarbles 
he 's won, and plays again, just for the sake of the 
game. 

CORN. — We were in dread of Ellen going to 
America at one time, and then she went in for 
the school. Now Matt Cosgar may keep her from 
the school. Maybe we won't have to go further 
than this house to see Ellen. 

MAR. — I'm hoping it'll be like that, but in 
dread that Murtagh Cosgar will never agree to 
it. He's hard man to deal with. Still Murtagh 
and myself will be on the long road to-night and 
we might talk of it. I'm afeard of Ellen going. 

CORN. — (at the door.) It's herself that's com- 
ing here, father. 

MAR. — Maybe she has heard the news and is 
coming to tell us. Ellen enters. She has a shawl 
over her head which she lays aside. She is about 
twenty-five, slightly-built, nervous, emotional. 
Her dress does not differ from the dress of the 
ordinary country girl. She dresses with taste. 

ELLEN — Is it only ourselves that's here. 

MAR. — Only ourselves. Did you get any news 
to bring you over, Ellen? 

ELLEN — No news. It was the shine of the 



10 



day that brought me out. And I was thinking too 
of the girls that are going to America in the morn- 
ing, and that made me restless. (Martin and Cor- 
nelius look significantly at each other.) 

MAR. — And did you see Matt, Ellen! He was 
in the field and I coming up, but I did not wait for 
him. I don't want people to see us together, 
(restlessly.) 1 don't know how I can come into 
this house. It's always like Murtagh Cosgar. 
There's nothing of Matt in it at all. If Matt 
would come away. There are little labourer's 
houses by the side of the road. Many 's the farm- 
er 's son became a labourer for the sake of a 
woman he cared for. 

CORN. — And are you not thinking about the 
school at all, Ellen? 

ELLEN — I'll hear about it sometime, I sup- 
pose. 

MAR. — You 're right to take it that way, Ellen. 
School doesn't mean scholarship now. Many's 
the time I'm telling Cornelius that a man farming 
the land, with a few books on his shelf and a few 
books in his head, has more of the scholar's life 
about him, than the young fellows who do be 
teaching in schools and teaching in colleges. 

CORN. — That's all very well, father, school 
and scholarship isn't the one. But think of the 
word Constantinople! I could leave off herding 
and digging every time I think on that word ! 



11 



MAR. — All, it's a great word. A word like that 
would make you think for days. And there are 
many words like that. 

ELLEN — It's not so much the long words that 
we've to learn and teach now. When will you be 
home, father. Will Corneilus be with you? 

MAR. — Ellen, I have news for you. There's 
a school in Leitrim that father Bartley can let you 
have. 

ELLEN — In Leitrim ! ( She sit down and puts 
her hands before her face.) 

ELLEN— (rising.) Did you tell Matt about it? 

MAR. — I did not. ( Sally is heard calling ' ' Cor- 
neilus." Corneilus goes to the door.) 

CORN.— Here's Matt now. The benefit of the 
day to you, Matt. (He stands aside to let Matt 
enter. Matt Cosgar is a young peasant of about 
twenty-eight. He is handsome and well-built. He 
is dressed in trousers, shirt and coat, and has a 
felt hat on. (Corneilus goes out.) 

MATT — (going to Ellen.) You're welcome, 
Ellen. Good-morrow, Martin. It's a great day 
for the purchase, Martin. 

MAR. — A great day indeed, thank God. 



12 



MATT — Ah, it's a great thing to feel the own- 
ership of the land, Martin. 

MAE. — I don't doubt but it is. 

MATT — Look at the blossoms on the young ap- 
ple-trees, Ellen. Walking up this morning I felt 
as glad of them, as a young man would be glad 
of the sweetheart he saw coming towards him. 

ELLEN — Ay, there's great gladness and shine 
in the day. 

MATT — It seems to trouble you. 

ELLEN — It does trouble me. 

MATT— The day? Why? 

ELLEN — Everything seem to be saying 
"There's something here, there's something go- 
ing. 

MATT — Ay, a Spring day often makes you feel 
like that. It's a great day for the purchase 
though. How many years ought we to offer, 
Ellen? (Martin goes out. He sits on the bench 
outside.) 

ELLEN — Twenty years, I suppose (suddenly) ; 
Matt! 

MATT— What is it, Ellen? 



13 



ELLEN — I have got an offer of a school in the 
County Leitrim. 

MATT— I wish they'd wait, Ellen. I wish they'd 
wait till I had something to offer you. 

ELLEN — I'm a long time waiting here, Matt. 

MATT — Sure we're both young. 

ELLEN — This is summer now. There will be 
Autumn in a month or two. The year will have 
gone by without bringing me anything. 

MATT — He'll be letting me have my own way 
soon, my father will. 

ELLEN — Did Murtagh Cosgar ever let a child 
of his have their own way? 

MATT— When the land's bought out he'll be 
easier to deal with. 

ELLEN Wlien he owns the land he'll never 

let a son of his marry a girl without fortune, with- 
out land. 

MATT— Ellen, Ellen, I'd loose house and land 
for you. Sure you know that, Ellen. My brothers 
and sisters took their freedom — They went from 
this house and away to the ends of the world. 
Maybe I don't differ from them so much. But I've 
put my work into the land and I'm beginning to 



14 



know the land. I won't loose it, Ellen, Neither 
will I loose you. 

ELLEN— 0, Matt, what's the land after all. 
Do you ever think of America? The streets, the 
shops, the throngs! 

MATT— The land is better than that when you 
come to know it, Ellen. Hush, Father's without. 

(Martin Douras and Murtagh Cosgar are heard 
exchanging greetings. Then Murtagh enters, Mar- 
tin behind him.) 

Murtagh Cosgar is about sixty. He is a hard, 
strong man, seldom spoken, but with a flow of 
words and some satirical power. He is still pow- 
erful mentally and physically. He is clean shaven, 
has on a trowsers, sleeved-waistcoat, heavy boots, 
felt hat. He goes towards Ellen. 

MUR — Good-morrow to you (turning to Matt). 
When I get speaking to that Sally again, she'll re- 
member what I say. Giving cabbage to the pigs 
and all the bad potatoes in the house. And I had 
to get up in the clouds of the night to turn the cows 
out of the young meadow. No thought, no care 
about me. Let you take the harness outside and 
put a thong where there 's a strain in it. 

(Murtagh goes to the fire. Matt goes to the har- 
ness rack. Martin and Ellen are at the door. 

MAE — I'll have news for you when. I see you 
again. I've made up my mind to that. 



15 

ELLEN — Are you going to the fair, Father! 

MAR— Ay, with Murtagh. 

ELLEN — God be with you, father (she goes 
out). 

MAE — Wiiat purchase are you thinking of offer- 
ing, Murtagh? 

MUR — Twenty years. 

MAR — It's fair enough. 0, it's a great day for 
the country, no matter what our own troubles 
may be. 

(Matt has taken down the harness. He takes 
some of it up and goes out.) 

MUR — (With some contempt.) It's a pity you 
haven't a share in the day after all. 

MAR — Ay, it's a pity, indeed. (Murtagh goes 
to the door.) 

MUR — (With suppressed enthusiasm.) From 
this day out we're planted in the soil. 

MAR — Ay, in a sense we're planted in the soil. 

MUR — God, it's a great day. 
(Corne'lus re-enters.) 

CORN — This is a memorial occasion, Murtagh 
Cosgar, and I wish you the felicitations of it. I 



16 



met the deligates and I coming in, and I put my- 
self at the head of them. It's the day of the re- 
demption, Murtagh Cosgar. 

(Murtagh, without speaking, goes up to the 
room left.) 

CORN — He 's gone up to get the papers. Father, 
we must give the men understanding for this busi- 
ness. They must demand the mineral rights. Here 
they are. Men of Ballykillduff I greet your en- 
trance. 

(Six men enter discussing.) 

1ST MAN — ^Well leave it to Murtagh Cosgar. 
Murtagh Cosgar is'nt a grazier or a shopkeeper. 

(The speaker and two companions form a group 
of three to the right.) 

2ND MAN — It's the graziers and shopkeepers 
that are putting a business head on this. 

(He and two others remain a little to the right 
of first group.) 

3RD MAN — (In the right group.) If we're all 
on the one offer we can settle it at the lawyers. 

4TH MAN— (In the left.) Sure it's settled for 
twenty years on the first term rents, 

5TH MAN — (In the same.) There are some 
here that would let it go as high as twenty-three. 

6TH MAN— (In the right.) What does Mur- 
tagh Cosgar say? 



17 

THE MEN— We'll take the word from him. 

MAR — He mentioned twenty years. 

2ND MAN— Not as a limit, surely? 

THE LEFT GROUP— We're not for any 
higher offer. 

2ND MAN— Well, men; this is all I have to say. 
If you can get it for twenty, take it, and my bles- 
sing with it. But I want to be dealing with the 
government and not with landlords and agents. 
To have a straight bargain between myself and 
the government, I'd put it up to twenty-three, ay, 
up to twenty-five years purchase. 

3RD MAN — More power to you. Councillor. 
There's some sense in that. 

6TH MAN— I'm with the Councillor. 

1ST MAN— It's all very well for graziers and 
shopkeepers to talk, but what about the small 
farmer ? 

4TH MAN— The small farmer. That's the man 
that goes under. 

5TH MAN— (Knocking at the table.) Mur- 
tagh Cosgar, Murtagh Cosgar. 

CORN. — I tell you, men, that Murtagh Cosgar 
is in agreement with myself. Twenty years, I say, 
first term, no more. Let my father speak. 



18 



MAR. — There's a great deal to be said on both 
sides, men. ♦ 

1ST MAN— Here 's Murtagh, now. 

MUR. — (Coming down.) Twenty years, first 
term, that's what I agreed to. 

2ND MAN— And if they don't rise to that, Mnr- 
tagh? 

MUR. — Let them wait. I won't be going with 
you, men. I had a few words with the Agent about 
the turburry this morning, and maybe you're bet- 
ter without me. 

1ST MAN— All right, Murtagh. We can wait. 

4TH MAN — ^We know our own power now. 

5TH MAN — Come on, men. 

MUR. — If they don't rise to it, bide a while. We 
can make a new offer. 

2ND MAN— We want to be settled by the Fall. 

3RD MAN — The Councillor is right. We must 
be settled by the Fall. 

6TH MAN — A man who's a farmer only has 
little sense for a business like this. 

2ND MAN— We'll make the offer, Murtagh Cos- 



19 

gar, and bide a while. But we must be settled this 
side of the Fall. 

6TH MAN— We'll offer twenty years, first term. 

MUR. — Do, and God speed you. 

CORN. — (To the men going out.) I told you 
Murtagh Cosgar and myself are on the one offer. 
And Murtagh is right again when he says that you 
can bide your time. But make sure of the mineral 
rights, men, make sure of the mineral rights. 

(The men go out, Corne'lus following them.) 

MUR. — (With savage irony.) Musha, but that's 
a well-discoursed lad. It must be great to hear 
the two of you at it. 

MAR. — God be good to Cornelius. There 's little 
of the world 's harm in the boy. 

MUR. — He and my Sally would make a great 
match of it. She's a bright one, too. 

MAR. — Murtagh Cosgar, have you no feeling 
for your own flesh and blood? 

MUR. — Too much feeling, maybe. 
(He stands at the door in silence.) 

MUR. — (With sudden enthusiasm.) Ah, but 
that's the sight to fill one's heart. Lands ploughed 
and spread. And all our own, all our own. 



20 



MAR. — All our own, ay. But we made a hard 
fight for them. 

MUR.— Ay. 

MAR. — Them that come after us will never see 
them as we're seeing them now. 

MUR. — (Turning round.) Them that come af- 
ter us. Isn't that a great thought, Martin Douras, 
and isn't it a great thing that we're able to pass 
this land on to them, and it redeemed for ever 
(coming down). Ay, and their manhood spared 
the shame that our manhood knew. Standing in 
the rain with our hats off to let a landlord — ay, or 
a landlord's dog-boy — pass. 

MAR. — (mournfully.) May it be our own gen- 
erations that will be in it. Ay, but the young are 
going fast, the young are going fast. 

MUR. — (sternly.) Some of them are no loss. 

MAR. — Ten of your own children went, Mur- 
tagh Cosgar. 

MUR. — I never think of them. When they went 
from my control they went from me altogether, 
(a pause.) There's the more for Matt. 

MAR — (moistening his mouth, and beginning 
very nervously.) Ay, Matt. Matt's a good lad. 

MUR. — There's little fear of him leaving now. 



21 



MAR. — (nervously.) Maybe, maybe. But mind 
you, Murtagh Cosgar there are things — little 
things, mind you. Lestways, what we call little 
things. And after all who are we to judge whether 
a thing — 

MUR. — Is there anything on your mind, Martin 
Douras ? 

MAR. — (hurridly.) No, no. I was thinking — 
I was thinking, maybe you'd give me a lift to- 
wards Arvach, if you'd be going that way this 
night. 

MUR.— Ay, why not? 

MAR. — And we could talk about the land and 
about Matt too. Wouldn't it be a heartbreak if 
any of our children went — because of a thing we 
might — 

MUR. — (fiercely.) What have you to say about 
Matt? 

MAR;. — (stammering.) Nothing, except in a — 
in what you might call a general way. There's 
many a young man left house and land, for the 
sake of some woman, Murtagh Cosgar. 

MUR. — There's many a fool did it. 

MAR. — (going to door.) Ay, maybe, maybe. 
I'll be going now, Murtagh. 



22 



MUE. — Stop (clutching him). You know about 
Matt. What woman is he thinking of I 

MAE. — (frightened.) We'll talk about it again, 
Murtagh. I — I said I'd be back. 

MUE.— We'll talk about it now. Who is she. 
What name has she ? 

MAE. — (breaking from him and speaking with 
sudden dignity.) It's a good name, Murtagh Cos- 
gar. It's my own name. 

MUE. — Your daughter— Ellen ! Ho, ho. 

MAE. — Ay, a good name, and a good girl. 

MUE. — And do you think a son of mine would 
marry a daughter of yours ? 

MAE. — What great difference is between us, 
after all? 

MUE. — (fiercely.) The daughter of a man 
who'd be sitting over his fire, reading his paper, 
and the clouds above his potatoes, and the cows 
tramjpling his oats. (Martin is beaten down.) 

MUE. — Do you know me at all, Martin Douras ? 
I came out of a little house by the roadway and 
built my house on a hill. I had many children. 
Coming home in the long evenings, or kneeling 
still when the prayers would be over, I 'd have my 
dreams. A son in Aughnalee, a son in Bally- 



23 



brian, a son in Dunmore ! A son of mine with a 
shop, a son of mine saying mass in Killnalee. And 
I with a living name — a name in flesh and blood. 

MAR. — God help you, Murtagh Cosgar. 

M!UR.— But I've a son still. It's not your 
daughter he'll be marrying (he strides to the door 
and calls) Matt. 

MAR. — (going to him.) Murtagh Cosgar — for 
God's sake — We are both old men, Murtagh Cos- 
gar. 

MUR. — You've read many stories, Martin 
Douras, and you know many endings. You'll see 
an ending now, and it will be a strong ending, and 
a sudden ending. (Matt comes to the door, hold- 
ing the harness in his arms.) 

MUR. — You're wanted here. 

MATT. — I heard you call (coming down). So 
they're sticking to the twenty years. 

MAR. — (eagerly.) Twenty years, Matt, and 
they'll get it for twenty. it's a great day for 
you both ! Father and son you come into a single 
inheritance. ^Vhat the father wins, the son 
wields. 

MUR. — What the father wins the son wastes. 

MATT— What's the talk of father and son? 



24 



MAE. — They're the one flesh and blood. 
There's no more strife between them than between 
the right hand and the left hand, (to Matt.) We 
were talking about you. We were fixing a match 
for you. 

MATT — (startled, looking at Martin.) Fixing 
a match for me? 

MUR.— (softly.) Ay, Matt. Don't you think 
it's time to be making a match for you? 

MATT — (suddenly, going to the door.) Maybe 
it is. When you've chosen the woman, call. I'll 
be without. 

MUR; — (softly, going to him.) We haven't 
chosen yet. But it won't be Martin Douras's 
daughter, anyway! 

MATT — Stop. You drove all your living chil- 
dren away, except Sally and myself. You think 
Sally and myself are the one sort. 

MUR.— (tauntingly.) Martin's daughter, Cor- 
ney's sister. That's the girl for you! 

MATT — We're not the one sort, I tell you. 
Martin Douras, isn't he a foolish old man that 
would drive all his children from him. What 
would his twenty years purchase be to him then? 

MUR. — It wasn't for my children I worked. 
No, no. Thank God it wasn't for my children I 
worked. Go if you will. I can be alone. 



25 



MAE." — Murtagh, Murtagb, sure you know 
you can't be alone. We are two old men, Mur- 
tagh. 

MUR.— He daren't go. 

MATT— Because I'm the last of them he thinks 
he can dare me like that. 

MUE. — There was more of my blood in the 
others. 

MATT— Do you say that? 

MAR. — Don't say it again. For God's sake 
don't say it again, Murtagh. 

MUR. — I do say it again. Them who dared to 
go had more of my blood in them ! 

MATT — Ah you have put me to it now, and I'm 
glad, glad. A little house, a bit of land. Do you 
think they could keep nie here. 

MUR. — (to Martin.) It's his own way he 
wants. I never had my own way (to Matt). 
You're my last son. You're too young to know 
the hardship there was in rearing you. 

MATT — (exultantly.) Your last son, that won't 
keep me here. I'm the last of my name, but that 
won't keep me here. I leave you your lands, your 
twenty years purchase. Murtagh Cosgar, Mur- 
tagh Cosgar, isn't that a great name, Martin 



26 



Douras, a name that's well planted, a name for 
generations. Isn't lie a lucky man that has a name 
for generations! Ha! Ha. (He goes out.) 

MUR. — He can't go. How could he go, and he 
the last of the name. Close the door I say. 

MAR. — He'll go to Ellen surely. Murtagh Cos- 
gar, good comfort you and me. 

MU^.— Ellen, who's Ellen? Ay, that daughter 
of yours. They're a nice pair, a nice pair. Close 
the door, I say. (Martin closes the door and 
comes down to Murtagh.) The curtain falls. 



27 
THE SECOND ACT. 

The interior of Martin Douras's. The entrance is at the 
back right, the half-door is open. There are room-doors right 
and left, a small fire-place above the door left, chairs and stools 
about the turf-fire. The dresser is below the left door, table 
under the window in back left, a small bookcase to left of the 
window. 

Oorneilus has come in. He puts the newspaper 
on top of the dresser. 

CORN.— There! They won't be looking there 
for pipelights. I '11 be wanting that paper. There 
are things in it that I'd like to be saying (Sally 
rushes in). 

SALLY. — 0, Grod save you, Cornelius ! Tell me 
is my father gone? I dread going back and he 
there. It was all over that baste of a sow that 
has kept me slaving all through the Spring till I 
don't know whether greens or potatoes is the fit- 
test for her. 

CORN.— He didn't go, Sally. I went down a 
bit of the way with the men, and I'll meet them 
when they're coming back. 

SALLY— Och, God help me. And I'll have to 
be going back again to boil the meal for her. 
Where's Ellen? 

CORN.— Getting turf. Some of the girls that 
are going to America will be in to see her soon. 
She has tea ready for them I see. 



28 



SALLY — They're all going to Gilroy's, and 
they'll be leaving from that to-night. 

CORK. — ^Are there many going this flight. T 
was busy about the land and didn't hear? 

SALLY. — 0, there's a throng, but more will be 
going in the Fall. It seems the land never troubles 
them there, and so they can wear fine clothes and 
be as free as the larks over the bogs. It 's a won- 
der Ellen never wanted to go. 

CORN. — Father wouldn't like her to go, and so 
she took up the school instead. But she's often 
thinking of America. 

(Ellen enters. She has turf in her apron. She 
puts them on the fire and turns to Sally. 

SALLY— God save you, Ellen! 

E?LLBN — You're welcome, Sally. Cornelius, 
the turf was made very heavy this season. Next 
year — ^but God knows where I'll be next year. 

SALLY — May you have servants to carry them 
in for you next year, Ellen. 

ELLEN — May I be my own mistress. 

SALLY — You will be your own mistress, Ellen. 

ELLEjN — Maybe. 0, 1 wish no one in the world 
cared for me (bitterly). But in troth it isn't 
much people care for me. Well, I suppose the 



29 

land must be first in the tliouglits of tlie. people 
who live on it. 

SALLY — In America they're never troubled 
about the land, I'm told. 

ELLEN — In America, ay. But tell me about 
this side of Leitrim, Sally. If I have sense I'll be 
going there. 

SALLY — O, what would you be doing in Lei- 
trim, Ellen? It's a poor, wet, lonesome place. 

ELLE/N — Is it more poor, wet, or lonesome than 
this place ? 

SALLY— It is in troth. It's the back of the 
mountain entirely. Och, I'm remembering that 
baste of a sow. I'll have to be going back. 

CORN. — (who has been paring a rod) — Don't 
let anyone take down that paper, Ellen. I'm going 
out herding, and I'll meet the men when they're 
coming back. 

ELLEN— (half to herself)— The turf bum 
damp. Ah, tliis little house, this little house. One 
would come to like it when one gets old and only 
able to take a dozen steps from the fire. 

SALLY — (at door) — Will I be giving Matt any 
word from you, Ellen? 

BLLENl— No. 



30 



SALLY — It's often Matt does be looking out 
for you, Ellen. He always goes to the place where 
he thinks you'd be. 

ELLEN — (taking a book from] the shelf) — I'm 
going to read, Sally. (She goes into room left.) 

SALLY — (coming down to Cornelius) — God 
help us but she's the silent creature. Isn't it a 
wonder she's not filled with talk of him, after see- 
ing him to-day ? But Edlen 's right. We shouldn 't 
be talking about men, nor thinking about them 
either, and that's the way to keep them on our 
hands in the long run. I'll be going myself (she 
goes back to the door). 

OOBN. — (going to her) — Don't be minding El- 
len at all, Sally. 

SALLY — ^Well as high as she is, and as mighty 
as she is, she came into his own house to see Matt. 
God between us and harm, Cornelius, mJaybe 
they'll be saying I came into your house to see 
you. 

COEilSr. — Wlio'll know that you came at all. 
And what isn't seen won't be spoken of. 

SALLY — Would you like me to stay, Cornelius ? 

CORK— Ay. 

SALLY — Divil mind the sow (they sit down to- 
gether) . 



SALLY — (after a pause) — Would you like me 
to knit you a pair of socks, Corneilus? 

CORN.— 0, I would, Sally. I'd love to wear 
them. 

■ SALLY— I'll knit them. We'll be getting rid 
of the sow to-night, maybe, and I'll have time after 
that. 

COBN. — And you come along the road when 
I 'm herding. I don 't want to be going near your 
father's house. 

SALLY— 0, Corneilus, it won't be luck for us 
when father hears about Ellen and Matt. 

CORN. — That's true. No mian sees his house 
afire but looks to his rick. 

SALLY — Come down a bit of the road with me, 
Corneilus. The sow will be grunting and grunt- 
ing, reminding father that I 'm away. Och, a min- 
ute ago I was as contented as if there was no land 
or pigs, or harsh words to trouble one. (She goes 
to the door.) The girls for America are coming 
here. There's six of them on the path. 

CORN. — Give me your hands to hold, Sally (she 
gives him her hands). We're as young as any of 
them after all. (They hold each others hands, 
then stand apart.) 

SALLY — It's a fine time for them to go going, 



32 



wlien the leaves are opening on the trees. (Six 
girls enter. They are dressed for going away.) 

SALLY — God save you, girls. Good-bye, Cor- 
neilus. I'll have to run like a redshank (Sally 
goes out). 

CORN,— I'll call Ellen down to you girls. (He 
goes up to the room and calls.) I'm going herd- 
ing myself. Herding is pleasant when you have 
thoughts with you (he takes up the rod and goes 
out). 

(The girls begin whispering, then chattering.) 

1st GIRL. — Sure I know. Every night I'm 
dreaming of tlie sea and the great towns. Streets 
and streets of houses and every street as crowded 
as the road outside the chapel when the people do 
be coming from mass. 

2nd GIRL. — I could watch the crowd in the 
street. I would think it better than any sight I 
ever knew. 

3rd GIRL. — And the shops and the great houses. 

4th GIRL. — There's no stir here. There's no 
fine clothes, nor fine manners, nor fine things to be 
seen. 

5th GIRL. — There's no money. One could 
never get a shilling together here. In America 
there's mioney to have and to spend and to send 
home. 



33 

6tli GIRfL. — Every girl gets inarried in America. 
(Ellen comes down.) 

ELLEN — I'm glad you came, girls. I have tea 
ready for you. I can't go to Gilroy's to-night. 
(Three girls remain near the door, looking out. 
The others sit at tlie table.) 

1st GIRL— (at table, to Ellen)— They say that 
a turf -fire like that will seem very strange to us 
after America. Bridget wondered at it when she 
came back. "Do civilized people really cook at 
the like of them" said she. 

2nd GIRL— (at table)— It's the little houses 
with only three rooms in them that will seem 
strange. I 'm beginning to wonder myself at their 
thatcli and their mud walls. 

3rd GIRL — (at table) — Houses in bogs and 
fields. It was a heartbreak trying to keep them 
as we'd like to keep them. 

(A girl at door) — Ah, but I'll never forget Gor- 
tan and the little road to Aughnalee. 

Another girl (at door) — I think I'll be lonesome 
for a long time. I'll be tliinking on my brothers 
and sisters. I nursed and minded all the little 
ones. 

Another girl (at door) — To tell the truth I was 
fond of a boy. A girl like you, Ellen, is foolish to 
be staying here. 

(A girl at the door) — She'll be coming in the 
Fall. We'll be glad to see you, Eillen. 



34 

ELLEN — I have no friends in Amierica. 

A GIRL AT TABLE— I have no friends 
there either. But I'll get on. You could get on 
better than any of us, Ellen. 

A GIRL AT TABLE^She's waiting for 
her school, maybe. 

A GIRL AT TABLE— A little place by 
the side of a bog is the most she'd be getting. 

A GIRL AT DOOR— (going to Ellen). 
There would be little change in that. And isn't 
it a life altogether different from this life that 
we have been longing for? To be doing other 
work and to be meeting strange men and strange 
women. And instead of bare roads and market 
towns to be seeing streets, and crowds and thea- 
tres (the girls form a single group). 

ELLEN — (passionately). what do you 
know about streets and theatres'? You have only 
heard of them. They are finer than anything 
you could say. They are finer than anything you 
could think of, after a story, and you young. 
(Sally enters hurriedly.) 

SALLY — Ellen, Ellen, I have wonders to tell! 
"Where is Cornelius at all! He's never here when 
you have wonders to tell. 

ELLEN— What have you to tell? (Sally takes 
hold of her and brings her down stage.) 



35 



SALLY— I don't know how I'll get it all out ! 
Matt and father had an odious falling-out and it 
was about you. And Cornelius was saying that 
if father found out about yourself and Matt. 

ELLEN— Sally, Sally, take breath and tell it. 

SALLY — (looking at the girls). I'm not going 
to make a great blowing-horn about our own 
families. 

ONE OF THE GIRLS— We'll be going now, 
Ellen. Maybe you could come down to the Celidh 
at Gilroy's. (Ellen goes to the door with the 
girls and they part.) 

ELLEN — (coming down). What was it you 
were saying, Sally? That Matt and his father 
quarrelled? 

SALLY — And Matt is going to America, like 
the others, and he is taking you with him. 

ELLEN — Sally, Sally, is it the truth you're 
telling! 

SALLY — It is the truth. Honest as day it is 
the truth. 

ELLEN — I was troubled because he cared for 
me. I am a cold creature. I have never loved 
him half enough. 

SALLY — Ellen, I don't know why I was so 



36 



fervent to tell yon. There's the stool before me 
that we were sitting on, and he saying "It won't 
be well for you and me, Sally, when your father 
finds out about Matt and Ellen (she goes to the 
door). 

SALLY— Here's Matt. Now we'll hear all 
about it. 

ELLEN — So soon, so soon. (She goes to a 
little mirror under the book-shelf and stands be- 
fore it fixing her hair.) 

ELLEN — (turning round.) Go down the road 
for a bit when he comes in. And Sally, you have 
a simple mind, and you might be saying a prayer 
that whatever happens will be for the best. 

SALLY — (going to the door) (muttering). Go 
down the road a bit! 'Deed and I will not till 
I know the whole ins and outs of it. Sure I'm 
as much concerned in it as herself. "No man 
sees his house afire but watches his rick," he was 
saying. Ah, there's few of them could think of 
as fine a thing as that to say. (Matt enters.) 

MATT — So you're here, Sally? Were you at 
home at all? 

SALLY — I was. Leastways as far as the door. 
Father and old Martin were discoursing. 

MATT — I've given them something to dis- 
course about. Maybe you'll be treated better 
after this day, Sally. 



37 

SALLY— Matt, I'm sorry. (She sits at the 
door.) 

MATT— (going to Ellen.) It happened at 
last, Ellen. The height of the quarrel came. 

ELLEN — It was bound to come. I knew it 
would come, Matt. 

MATT — He was a foolish man to put shame on 
me after all I did for the land. 

ELLEN — You had too much thought for the 
land. 

MATT— I had in troth. The others went when 
there was less to be done. They could not stand 
him. Even the girls went away. 

ELLEN — There was the high spirit in the 
whole of you. 

MATT— I showed it to him. ''Stop," said I, 
''no more, or I fling lands and house and every- 
thing aside. 

ELLEN— You said that. 

MATT— "Your other children went for less," 
said I. "Do you think there's no blood in me at 

all?" 

ELLEN— What happened then? 

MATT— "I'm 3^our last son," I said, "keep 



38 

your land and your twenty years purchase. I'm 
with the others and it's poor your land will leave 
you, and you without a son to bring down your 
name. A bit of land, a house," said I, ''Do you 
think these will keep me here ? ' ' 

ELLEN — I knew they could not keep you here. 
Matt. You have broken from them at last, and 
now the world is before us. Think of all that is 
before us — the sea and the ships, the strange life 
and the great cities. 

MATT — Ay — there before us — if we like. 

ELLEN — Surely we like. 

MATT — I was always shy of crowds. I'm sim- 
ple after all, Ellen, and have no thought beyond 
the land. 

ELLEN — But you said that house and land 
could not keep you. You told him you were go- 
ing as your brothers went. 

MATT — And I felt I was going. I frightened 
him. He'll be glad to see me back. It will be 
long before he treats me that way again. 

ELLEN— ( suddenly. ) Matt ! 

MATT— What is it, Ellen? 

ELLEN — I don't know — I was upset — thinking 
of the quarrel (putting her hands on his 
shoulders.) My poor Matt. It was about me you 
quarreled. 



39 

MATT — Ay, he spoke against yon. I couldn't 
put up with that. 

ELLEN — He does not know your high spirit. 
He does not know your strength. 

MATT — Ellen, Ellen, it's no shame for a man 
to have harsh words said to him: when it's about 
a woman like you. 

ELLEN — Let there be nothing between us now. 
I saw you in the winter making drains and ditches 
and it wet. It's poor story, the life of a man on 
the land. 

MATT — I had too much thought for the land. 

ELLEN — You had. Have thought for me now. 
There is no one in fair or market but would notice 
me. I was never a favorite. I lived to myself. I 
did not give my love about to men or to women. 
I love you, I love you. You have never offered me 
anything. In the song a man offers towns to his 
sweetheart. You can offer me the sights of great 
towns, and the fine manners and the fine life. 

MATT— Ellen! (He draws a little away.) It's 
not me that could offer the like of that. I never 
had anything in my hand but a spade. 

ELLEN — Your brothers — think of them. 

MATT — They all left som^eone behind them. I 
am the last of my name. 



. 40 

ELLEN— Why should that keep you back? 

MATT — His name is something to a man. Could 
you hear of your own name melting away without 
unease? And you are a woman. A man feels it 
more. 

ELLEN — I do not understand men. Will you 
go back to your fathers house after he shaming 
you out of it? 

MATT— He'll be glad to see me back, he'll 
never cast it up to me that I went. 

ELLEN — Matt, your father said words against 
me. Will you go to him and take his hand after 
that. 

MATT — It was little he said against you. It 
was against your father he spoke. 

ELLEN — (sinking down on a chair and putting 
her hands before her eyes.) My God, after all my 
waiting, to hear you talk like that. 

MATT— (going to her.) Ellen, Ellen, tell me 
what I can do for you. There's land and houses 
to be had here. Father will let me have my own 
way after this. 

ELLEN — (rising.) Listen to me, Matt Cosgar. 
I'm staying here for a long time now. Do you 
think I've come to like this little house, and the 



41 



bog beside it and the little bits of laboured 
ground! Do you think I've come to like the day's 
work and the talk by the fire.! There's something 
in me, Matt Cosgar, that can never mix with these. 
And what would you have me wait for ! For your 
father to let me to his house! Would I not be 
worse of there ! Your father watching me all day, 
and thinking me idle for sitting down, and waste- 
ful for not minding little things. And in a while 
he would say it to me, and be harsh and over- 
bearing with me. You know he would. Matt 
Cosgar. 

MATT — And what would you have me do, Ellen 
Douras! 

ELLEN — If you take me you will have to go 
from your father's house. I always knew it. You 
ought to know it now. 

MATT — You did not know it always. And you 
have let someone come between us when you talk 
like that . 

ELLEN — I'm not one to be listening to what 
people say about you. Nor do I be talking in the 
markets about you. 

MATT — I suppose not. You wouldn't have 
people think you gave any thought to me. I'm 
not good enough for you. The people you know 
are better. 



42 

ELLEN — You are foolish to be talking like that. 
You are foolish I say. 

MATT— I know I'm foolish. Fit only to be 
working in drains in the winter. That's what you 
think. 

ELLEN— Maybe it is. 

MATT— Ellen Douras, Ellen Douras, a farm- 
er's roof will be high enough for you some day. 

ELLEN — May I never see the day. Go back, 
go back. Make it up with your father. Your 
father will be glad of a labourer. 

MATT — Maybe you won't be glad if I go back 
thinking on what you 've said. 

ELLEN — I said too much. We don 't know each 
other at all. Gto back. You have made your 
choice. (She goes up to the room.) 

MATT — Ellen (he goes towards the room. The 
door closes). 

MATT — Very well, then. (With sudden anger.) 
God above, am I to be treated everywhere like a 
heifer strayed into a patch of oats ? Neither man 
nor woman will make me put up with this any 
longer (going to the door), (speaking to Sally). 
When Ellen Douras wants me she knows the place 
to send to. 



SALLY — Is it Ellen that's going awayf 

MATT — Not she. Someone has come between 
us, talking and giving her notions. Ellen is no 
longer the simple kindly girl she was once. (Com- 
ing down and speaking loudly.) I'll be waiting 
for two days or three days to hear from Ellen 
Douras. (He listens anxiously for a minute. 
There is no sound from the room. With a sigh 
he goes to the door and goes out.) (Ellen comes 
down.) 

ELLEN — Two days or three days he '11 be wait- 
ing for me. 

SALLY — (coming to her.) And so neither of 
you are going after all. 

ELLEN— (bitterly.) He thinks I'll wait here. 

But there's another place I can go, though it 

isn't much of a change. Two days or three days 

■ he'll wait. Maybe it's lonesome weary years he'll 

be waiting before he hears from me. 

(Curtain.) 



44 
THE THIRD ACT. 

Interior of Murtagh Cosgar's. It is towards sunset. Mur- 
tagh Cosgarls standing before the door looking out. Martin 
Douras is sitting at the fire in an arm chair. 

MAR. — It's getting late, Murtagh Cosgar. 

MUR.— Ay, it's getting late. 

MAR. — It's time for me to be going home. I 
should be seeing Ellen. (He rises.) 

MUR. — Stay where you are (turning round). 
We're two old men as you say. We should keep 
each other's company for a bit. 

MAR. — I should be going home to see Ellen. 

MUR. — If she's going you can't stay her. Let 
you keep her. 

MAR.- — She'll be wondering what happened to 

* 

me. 

MUR. — Dvil a bit it will trouble her. You're 
going to the fair anyway. 

MAR. — I have no heart to be going into a 
fair. 

MUR. — It's myself used to have the great 
heart. Driving in on my own side car and looking 
down on the crowd of them. It's twenty years 
since I took a sup of drink. we'll have drink- 



45 

ing to-morrow that will soften the oiil' skin of 
you. You'll be singing songs about the Trojans 
to charm every baste in the fair. 

MAR. — We're both old men, Murtagh Cosgar? 

MUR. — And is there any reason in your schol- 
arship why oul' men should be dry men? An- 
swer me that ! 

MAR. — I won't answer you at all, Murtagh 
Cosgar. There's no use in talking to you. 

MUR. — Put it down on a piece of paper that 
oul' men should have light hearts when their care 
is gone from them. They should be like 

MAR. — There's nothing in the world like men 
with their rearing gone from them and they old. 
(Sally comes to the door. She enters stealthily.) 
Ha, here's one of the clutch come home. Well, 
did you see that brother of yours ? 

SALLY— I did. He'll be home soon, father. 

MUR.— What's that you say? Were you talk- 
ing to him? Did he say he'd be home? 

SALLY — I heard him say it, father. 

MAR. — God bless j^ou for the news, Sally. 

MUR. — How could he go and he the last of 
them? Sure it would be against natuifa. Where 
did you see him, Sally? 



46 

SALLY— At Martin Douras's, father. 

MUE.— It's that Ellen Douras that's putting 
him up to all this. Don't you be said by her, 
Sally, 

SALLY— No, father. 

MUR. — You're a good girl, and if you haven't 
wit, you have sense. He'll be home soon, did 
you say? 

SALLY — He was coming home. He went 
round the long way, I'm thinking. Ellen Douras 
was vexed with him, father. She isn't going 
either. Matt says, but I 'm thinking that you might 
as well try to keep a corncrake in the meadow 
for a whole winter, as try to keep Ellen Douras 
in Aughnalee. The girl's for America. 

MUE. — Make the place tidy for him to come 
into. He'll have no harsh words from me. (He 
goes up to the room.) 

SALLY — Father's surely getting ould. 

MAR. — (Sitting down.) He's gone up to rest 
himself, God help him. Sally, a stor, I'm that 
fluttered, I dread going into my own house. 

SALLY — I'll get ready now, and let you have 
a good supper before you go to the fair. 

MAE. — Sit down near me and let me hear 



47 



everything, Sally. Was it Matt that told you or 
were you talking to Ellen herself. 

SALLY — indeed I had a talk with Ellen, but 
she won't give much of her mind away. It was 
Matt that was telling me. "Indeed she's not go- 
ing," said he, "and a smart young fellow like 
myself thinking of her. Ellen is too full of no- 
tions. Here's Matt himself. Father won't have 
a word to say to him. He's getting mild as he's 
getting ould, and maybe it's a fortune he'll be 
leaving to myself. (Matt comes to the door. He 
enters.) 

MATT— You here again, Sally? Where is he! 
He's not gone to the fair so early! 

SALLY — He's in the room. 

MATT — Were you talking to him at all? Were 
you telling him you saw myself? 

SALLY — I was telling him that you were com- 
ing back. 

MATT— How did he take it? 

SALLY— Very quiet. God help us all, I think 
father's loosing his spirit. 

MATT — (going to Martin). Well, you see I've 
come back, Martin. 

MAR. — Ay, you're a good lad. I always said 
you were a good lad. 



48 

MATT— How did father take it, Martin? 

MAR. — Quietly, quietly. You saw Ellen! 

MATT— Ay, I saw Ellen (gloomly). She 
shouldn't talk the way she talks, Martin. What 
she said keeps coming into my mind and I'm 
troubled. God knows I've enough trouble on my 
head. 

MAR. — (eagerly). What did she say, Matt 
Cosgarl 

MATT — It wasn't what she said. She has that 
school in her mind I know. 

MAR. — And is there anything to keep her here, 
Matt Cosgar? 

MATT — I don't know that she thinks much of 
me now. We had a few words, but there's noth- 
ing in the world I put above Ellen Douras. 

MAR. — I should be going to her. 

MATT— Wait a bit, and I'll be going with you. 
Wait a bit. Let us talk it over. She wouldn't 
go from you, and 3^ou old f 

MAR. — God forgive my age, if it would keep 
her here. Would I have my Ellen drawing turf, 
or minding a cow, or feeding pigs! 

MATT— I'm fond of her, Martin. She couldn't 



49 



go, and I so fond of her? What am I doing here? 
I should be making it up with her. What good 
will anything be if Ellen Douras goes. (He turns 
to the door, then stops.) I came to settle with 
him. I mustn't be running about like a fright- 
ened child. (The room-door opens and Murtagh 
Cosgar is seen. Sally has hung a pot over the 
fire, and is cleaning the dishes at the dresser.) 

MUR. — (At the door.) Sally, it's time to be 
putting on the meal. If you have any cabbage 
left, put it through the meal. (To Matt.) You 
put the thong in the harness? 

MATT — I did (pause). Well, I've come back 
to you. 

MUE. — You're welcome. We were making 
ready for the fair. 

MATT — I'll be going out again before nightfall. 

MUR. — Well, I'll not be wanting you here or at 
the fair. 

MATT — (Sullenly.) There's no good talking 
to me like that. 

MUR. — You said ''I've come back," and I said 
''you're welcome." You said "I'm going out 
again," and I said "I'll not be wanting you." 

MATT — Father, have you no feeling for me at 
all? 



50 



MUE. — Sure, the wild raven on the tree has 
thought for her young. 

MATT^ — Ay, but do you feel for me, and I stand- 
ing here, trying to talk to you? 

MUE.. — You're my son, and so I feel sorry for 
you, and you beginning to know your own foolish- 
ness. (He turns to Sally.) 

MUE. — I'm not taking the pigs. Put a fresh 
bedding under them to-night. 

SALLY— I will, father. 

MUE. — Be up early and let the cows along the 
road, or they'll be breaking into the young 
meadow. 

SALLY— I'll do that, too. 

MUE. — Be sure to keep enough fresh milk for 
the young calf. 

SALLY— I'll be sure to do it, father. (She 
goes out. Martin takes out his paper and begins 
to read it again.) 

MATT — (Turning on Murtagh.) Before I go 
out again there 's something I want settled. 

MUE.— What is it you want? 

MATT— Would you have me go or would you 
have me stay ? 



51 



MUR. — Don't be talking of going or staying 
and you the last of them. 

MATT— But I will be talking of it. You must 
treat me differently if you want me to stay. You 
must treat me differently to the way you treat 
Sally. 

MUR. — You w^ere always treated differently, 
Matt. In no house that I ever remember was there 
a boy treated as well as you are treated here. 

MATT — The houses that you remember are dif- 
ferent from the houses that are now. Will you 
have me go or will you have me stay ? 

MUR. — You're very threatening. I'd have you 
stay. For the sake of the name I'd have you stay. 

MATT — Let us take hands on it then. 

MUR. — Wait. We'll see what you want first. 

MATT — You have no feeling. I'd go out of 
this house only I want to give you a chance. 

MUR. — Stop. We can have kindness in this. 
We needn't be beating each other down like men 
at a fair. 

MATT — We're not men at a fair. May God 
keep the kindness in our hearts. 
(Martin rises.) 



52 

MUR. — Don't be going, Martin Douras. 

MATT — Don't be going yet. I'll be with you 
when you're going. 
(Martin sits down.) 

MUE.— (To Matt.) You'll be getting married, 
I suppose, if you stay. 

MATT— Maybe I will. 

MUR. — (Bitterly.) In the houses that are now, 
the young marry where they have a mind to. It's 
their own business, they say. 

MATT — Maybe it is their own business. I'm 
going to marry Ellen Douras, if she'll have me. 

MUR. — Ellen is a good girl, and clever I'm told. 
But I would not have you deal before you go into 
the fair. 

MATT — I'm going to marry Ellen Douras. 

MUR. — Her father is here and we can settle it 
now. What fortune will you be giving Ellen, Mar- 
tin? That £100 that was saved while you were in 
Maryborough gaol? 

(Martin shakes his head.) 

MATT ( Stubbornly. ) I 'm going to marry Ellen 
Douras with or without a fortune. 

MUR. — (Passionately.) Boy, your father built 



53 



this house. He got these kinds together. He has 
a right to see that you and your generations are 
in the way of keeping them together. 

MATT (Stubbornly.) I'll marry Ellen 

Douras with or without a fortune. 

MUR. — Marry her then. Marry Ellen Douras 
I bid you. Break what I have built, scatter what 
I have put together. Martin Douras that is what 
all the young will be doing. 

MAR. — If they break and scatter it will be be- 
cause we were close and hard. 

MATT — That is true for you. I have something 
else to ask and then I will go home with you, Mar- 
tin Douras. 

MUR. — What else have you to ask? I am in a 
giving humor surely. 

MATT — Father, I have worked on your land 
all my days. I have worked on it since my bones 
were knit together. 

MUR. — (Harshly.) If you had done more the 
market would hear of it. 

MATT — Give me a share of land, father, and 
build a house for us. 

MUR. — Give you a share of land, why! Why 
should I break up my land giving a share to you 



54 



and a share to Sally ? And why should I build you 
a house. This house was built for me and my gen- 
erations. 

MATT 1 will not bring Ellen into this house. 

MUE. — Well, there's Martin's house for the 
both of you. 

MATT — It will be easy to find a house when we 
go away together. 

MUR. — Then go (Matt turns to the door, going 
after him). Listen! If you go into another 
house you will be away from me, you and your chil- 
dren. You will be a stranger. I will have broken 
up my land for strangers. 

MATT — You will be a stranger yourself, Mur- 
tagh Cosgar, without another of your name in the 
countryside (he goes to the door). 

MUR. — A house, a share of land ! Why not f I 
said I was in a giving humor. 

MATT— Let us take hands now. 

MUR.— When we've settled, Matt. When I have 
given the bride's fortune, when I've given plant 
and stock. 

MATT— When do we begin to build? 
MUR. — In the winter. 



55 



MATT— Now, Martin, we must not let an hour 
pass without going to her. (He takes Martin by 
the armj and they go to the door. Ellen has come 
to it). 

MATT— Ellen ! ( She shrinks back) . 

ELLEN— It's my father I came to speak to. 

MUR.— (going to the door, and drawing the bolt 
from the half -door)— When you come to my house, 
Ellen Donras, you are welcome within (Ellen en- 
ters slowly). 

ELLEN — I would be a coward if I did not come 
in and speak to you all (she goes to Martin). 

ELLEN— Father, I am taking the school. I am 
going from here. 

MATT.— Wliat is it you are saying? How can 
you go when I care for you so much ? 

ELLEN— Maybe you don't care as much as you 
think. You'll be owning the land soon, and you'll 
forget mie. 

MATT— Surely, you don't think so much of a 
few words. Listen ! Father agrees to us marry- 
ing. Speak, father, and let her hear yourself say- 
ing it. 

ELLEN— I'd make a bad hand of a farmer's 
house. 

'.ofC, 



56 



MATT— We '11 have a house of our own. We'll 
build in the winter. Ay, before the winter. You 
can have what you like in it. 

ELLEN — Don't, don't, forget me, forget me 
(she goes to the door). 

MUR. — Let me look on you, Ellen Douras. You 
have refused house and land and a man's love. You 
and the young like you get more and more strange 
to me. 

ELLEN — We want our own way. We want to 
know the world. 

MUR. — I said that you will break what we built 
and scatter what we put together. No, but what 
we ploughed and harrowed you will put to the 
waste. 

ELLEIN— May be we will (she turns to Martin). 

ELLEN — I won't be so far away, and after a 
while, I'll be nearer maybe. 

MAR. — I always knew this day was before us. 
I blessed it for you many and many the time. (She 
goes to the door, Matt stands before her). 

MATT — Ellen Douras, you are not going out of 
this for a while. 

ELLEN — If you ever cared for me, you will let 
me go now. 



57 

MATT— You said you cared for me. You said 
it. Again and again you said it. 

ELLEN — I cared for you — as much as I could 
care for anyone. 

MATT— Is that what you say now? You said 
you would marry me. 

MATT.— ELLEN— I said it. 

MATT — I was right then. Som.eone has come 
between us. 

ELLEN — My own thoughts have come between 
us. But they were always between us. Let me 
go now. 

MATT— And what do you think I'll be doing, 
day after day, if you go I I was always thinking 
of yom 

ELLEN — You were thinking of me, and father 
was praying for me, and I was caring for my own 
way. Let me go now. Matt Cosgar. 

MATT — Ellen do you remember it was 

only a while ago (she puts her hands before her 
face). 

ELLEN — You have put the last shame upon me 
now. 

MATT — You take it that way. You are going 
surely. 



58 



ELLEN — I am. Stay on your land, Matt Cos- 
gar, and forget me. If ever I loved you I could 
not go like this (Matt is stunned. Ellen goes out. 
Murtagh takes Matt by the arm and brings him 
down.) 

MUR. — Let you be a man; Matt Cosgar. And 
you stay here, Martin Douras. The men will be 
coming in, and we '11 have new things to be talking 
about. 

MAR. — I won't be going to the fair to-night, 
Murtagh. 

MUR. — I won 't be going, either. When the men 
come in we'll drink to the new ownership. 

MAR. — Ah, think of that, Matt Cosgar — the new 
ownership. 

MATT^The ownership of what? Of the land, 

is it? 

MUR.— Ay. Of the land. Boy, boy, think of 
what the land means ! 

MATT — I spent my best days on it. Do you 
think I can work on it now, in rain and shine, and 
I without heart to live at all? 

MUR. — Work when you like, Matt. I give you 
the land. For God's sake, keep it for our name. 

MATT — I'll meet Ellen Douras again, and it's 



59 



not a farmer's house I'll be offering her then, nor 
life in a country place. 

MUE. — She played on you. She doesn't care 
for you at all. Will one of your blood go after a 
woman like that! 

MATT— I will go after her. I'll offer her the 
sights of great towns, and the fine life in them. 

MUE.— You'll stay for a while. You'll stay 
till the men come in. 

MATT — I'm not thinking of the land at all. 

MUE. — He's not thinking of the land at all! 
Martin Douras, Murtagh Cosgar is going to loose 
the last of his sons. 

MAE. — Some of them will come back, Murtagh 
Cosgar. 

MUE. — No. If he goes, who will come back. I 
cared for him more than I cared for the others. 

MATT — I'll never come back. 

MUE. — You mightn't put never before me like 
that. You might let it come to my door, day after 
day, till I got used to it. 

MATT — I'll go see the boys that are going 
away. 



GO 



MUR. — We'll light the candles and put them in 
the windows for an illumination for the men. 
Light the candles, Martin Douras. 

MAR. — Why should we light the candles and it 
only the sunset f 

MUR. — Only the sunset. Ay. Good-bye to you, 
Matt Cosgar. 

MATT— Good-bye. (He goes out.) (Murtagh 
stands rigid in the middle of the stage, Martin 
goes to him.) 

MAR. — Let you come home with me, Murtagh 
Cosgar. I'll have a few prayers to be saying this 
night. (Murtagh throws himself on his knees with 
sudden passion.) 

MUR.— My God! My God! (Martin kneels 
down too, then he rises and goes over to Mur- 
tagh) . 

MAR. — It was a king's dream you had, Mur- 
tagh Cosgar. 

MUR. — (rising.) What is it you're saying now, 
Martin Douras? 

MAR. — It was a king's dream you had. Mine 
was a meaner dream. Both are broken now, and 
we're old. 



61 



MUR. — And are old meD to dream no more? 
Answer me that, Martin Douras. 

MAB, — I won't be answering you at all when 
you begin that way. 

MUR. — Begorra, it's myself that will have the 
fine dreams from this out. I'll be dreaming of the 
women of the oul' times. They were fine, shapely 
women to look at, Martin Douras. 

MAR. — God forgive you, Murtagh Cosgar, for 
mocking at yourself like that. 

MUR. — And may God forgive you, Martin 
Douras, for letting the world know your grief. Sit 
down. Maybe I'll be going to the fair after all. 

MAR. — I won 't be going to the fair. 

MUR. — Faith you will, if it was only to be 
showing that seemly face of yours. 

MAR. — I won 't. And don 't be overbearing with 
me now, Murtagh. (Sally enters. She throws 
down an apron of cabbage leaves.) 

SALLY — I'll be going out again, father, and 
I'll put a bush in the gap. (Murtagh looks 
round.) 

MUR. — ^You were pulling the cabbage again. 



62 



SALLY— saints protect me. I forgot I had 
some in the house. (She retreats towards the 
door.) 

MUK.— Stay here (to Martin). Isn't she a 
great girl. Don't you think I could make a good 
miatch for her? (Sally kneels down and begins 
chopping the leaves as in first act.) 

MAR. — Sally is a good girl, but the boys do be 
thinking of another sort. 

MUR. — There's your Corneilus. 

MAR. — All, poor Corneilus! 

MUR. — Don't be talking, man. He's the best 
son you ever reared. I'll make a match for them. 

MAR. — I'll be going home, Murtagh Cosgar, I'll 
have nothing to say to this. 

MUR. — Much I care. Here are the men now. 
(Corneilus enters. The men behind him.) 

CORN. — ^Well, Murtagh Cosgar, a great and 
memorial day is ended. May you live long to en- 
joy the fruits of this day. 

One of the men. Twenty years on the first term 
and the land is ours and our children's ! 

MUR. — Ours and our childrens ', ay. Sally Cos- 
gar, stand up. Corneilus Douras give her your 



63 



hand. This is a great day men, we'll— We'll be 
making a match on the strength of it. (He joins 
the hands of Sally and Cornelius. The curtain 
falls.) 



(J 



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